[THE GNAT]
A LONG-LEGGED gnat with airy wings, a dart
Sharp as a needle and a searching tusk,
Was flutt'ring round my lamp, clung to my book-shelf,
And wandered over papers. Then I blew
On it, to chase it far away. But no,
Beneath the tempest of my breath it clung
Still faster to the paper's slender shelter
And moved not, till I thought my breath had killed it.
We watched each other; then it flew away.
I thought how Fate and we thus ofttimes watch
Each other, till Fate blow us into atoms,
And we remain in some weak place, in Death's
Suspense, not knowing if again the storm
Will blow. But Fate is careless and will let
Us go, if but the wings that are to take
Us hence are still untorn, unsinged, uncrushed;
Or else we creep along and die unseen,
A wingless worm, not understanding what
Those papers and those shelves contain that are
No revelation, nought but a grave, whilst others
Suck life and food, from where the storm of Fate
Hath torn us, unresisting, meaningless,
And watching with an instant's careless glance,
If we are really dead, or still may fly.
Cheat cruel Fate, keep still like death, move not,
Flutter not; then unfold thy wings, and go
Thy way, the coming morn is full of life,
Bury thy head in flowers, in the dew,
The sun is rising and thou art alive!
[REST]
AND did they say that rest was not so sweet,
Old age a sadness, no repose at all?
Then have they quite forgotten. They remember
No more the heartbreak of their early youth,
The battle fought for life, the angry clouds
That hid the sun, till he would shine no more,
The anguish of their nights, that made their bed
A furnace and a rack. They say: 'Twas but
A nightmare! And they smile, and yet that smile
Is sadder than a frown, much sadder than
A tear, as it is hopeless. For a tear
Has a bright spot, wherein the sun may sparkle.
That smile is sunless, be it e'er so sweet.
And know ye not how wildly ye have called
On Death, and tried to catch him by the wing,
Or let yourself be trodden under foot
By him? And wrung your hands in agony,
When he had passed you by. Ye dare not tell
Your heart what it has suffered, dare not look
Into the past again, for fear of turning
To stone, for whitelipp'd fear of waking from
Its sleep that heart to make it throb again,
Like millstones. You remember! Ah! You see!
You even try to do away with pity,
For fear of being tortured yet again,
And shaken yet again, and no more able
To quiet that unruly heart, that learnt
To fear. Oh! Have ye never known what fear
Can make of you? The wandering of your clock,
That hammers nails into your brain and hands,
The coming of the dawn, that cruel dawn,
With icy, deathlike eyes and hollow voice,
Announcing mercilessly that the day
Hath come? And were you not afraid, when night
Set in again, with redhot eyeballs, with
The lonely wringing of your soul between
Her hands, like linen, that she washed in tears,
In blood, in rivers of despair? Oh, see!
Here comes with gentle wing and loving eye
Sweet Rest, and lays her mantle round your shoulders,
And bids you fear no more, but listen to
The birds' first Alleluia to the morn,
That dances o'er the dew, up to the dawn,
And be it e'er so cold, so lifeless, like
The last of all the dawn they sang to. Fear
Is banished, anguish quenched in all the waters
That grief has steeped you in. You know that ne'er
Another day can be so dark again,
As Rest forbids the cruel dawn to break
With threat'ning eyes, as Rest shuts out the night,
And leaves thee lonely not, but fills thy sight
With loving faces at the gates of heaven.
Sweet Rest is round thee, like an autumn sun,
And sheds thy rays upon the striving young ones.
Ye long for bed again, like little children;
No longer doth the pillow seem on fire,
Your couch a bed of coals. The weary head
Is cool, the limbs lie still, and thought comes gently
Like a nurse's well-known ditty, that will lull
To sleep thee with its sameness. Rest hath come
At last, and looks into thy room, into
Thy heart, and sends forgetfulness, like balm,
Like a flower's perfume through thy silent chamber.
The clock is peaceful with its quiet beat,
And night and morn are one; they bring no struggle.
Sweet Rest hath come, great, wingèd, heaven-born,
To lead thee to thy home with angels' hands.